


Death of the Hero

by WritingMyDeliverance



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Badass Stiles Stilinski, Bittersweet Ending, Character Death, Emissary Stiles Stilinski, Hunter Stiles Stilinski, M/M, sterek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-17
Updated: 2014-06-17
Packaged: 2018-02-05 00:21:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1798687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WritingMyDeliverance/pseuds/WritingMyDeliverance
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles, a hunter-trained emissary, scares off all comers for years, until a lucky sneak attack takes him down near the territory’s border. It takes weeks for any hunters to hear he’s gone, and when they try to enter Hale land it becomes apparent why there haven’t been any challenges, despite the pack’s weakness after losing their emissary and their inattentiveness due to mourning: turns out Stiles is still around, haunting the Hale land, and just as strong as he ever was—plus, nigh invulnerable as well, now.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. This Dark And Twisty Road

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this all in the course of about 12 hours, and on no sleep. This is unbetaed, so any mistakes are my own.
> 
> The title of the fic and of each chapter is the title of an Abney Park song. Here's a playlist if you're interested: [Death of the Hero Mix](http://open.spotify.com/user/1247007490/playlist/41XFJAl9LypDsVZsuKwEE4)

A band of hunters rolls into the Hale territory, slow and easy, just before dawn. It’s been a month and a half since Stilinski died, and his mentor has been on the road for two straight days. She’s behind the wheel now, jaw clenched, eyes narrowed on the road ahead. That no good Hale has got her prodigy killed, she hears, and if he’s lost a grip on this land, so help her, she’s gonna put the damn dog down herself.

Her son watches her sleepily from the passenger seat. She’s been hell-bent on getting to Beacon Hills, living on truck stop coffee and microwave food ever since she heard about Stilinski’s death, and she barely slowed down except to piss. The rest of the group’s been giving her a wide berth since she pistol-whipped Jamie two states back for suggesting the kid’d got what was coming to him, and Alex is just glad they’re close to their destination—he’ll be able to get out of the damned car and stretch his legs, at least.

More than that, though, he trained with Stilinski—they were near in age—and he’d got to like the guy; he wants to pay his respects, and maybe figure out how it’d happened. When he’d stayed with them more than ten years back, Stilinski had looked all loose limbs and easy smiles, but when he got to sparring he was only hard edges and slippery movement. You’d think you had him, and then he’d slide out of your grip and knock you on your ass. It seemed unfathomable that anything could get the best of him.

“Mom,” Alex murmurs, and she tilts her head towards him without taking her eyes off the road. “We’ve been on the road for days. We’re not fresh, and going in now might turn out bad for us. Why don’t we stop at a motel, get a couple hours sleep, and come at it with a plan? I know the gang would appreciate the chance to rest.”

She scoffs at that, but still pulls off at the first motel they come across. The seven men and women travelling with them pile out of their cars gratefully, groaning as they work the kinks out of their backs and limbs. Still keeping his distance, Jamie and his beau go in to get the room keys, and the rest start pulling duffels of gear out of the Range Rovers.

“I’m afraid that’s a bad idea,” says a voice behind them, and Leanne whips around so fast it ought to give her whiplash. Alex turns a touch slower, his eyes widening at the figure before them.

“Stilinski?” his mother asks incredulously. The figure gives a little wave, and it emphasises what they’re struggling to believe: the trees are visible _through_ him.

“Hey, Leanne. Long time no see,” he quips, and Alex snorts. “Hey, Short-Stuff.”

“Yeah, yeah; what gives, Stilinski?” Alex gestures at him, and he shakes his head ruefully.

“It’s a funny story—well, not funny ha-ha…” Leanne grunts, pulls a knife and tosses it at him, and his outline flickers as it passes through him. His eyes focus on her, boring in. “All business, as usual, I see.”

“I just got wind you died, you good-for-nothing—we been on the road since Thursday, came here straight from Douglas, GA, and you wanna act like you’re not fucking see-through!” She’s getting really wound up, and she knows it won’t do any good, so she just clamps her mouth shut and glares hard at the shade in front of her.

“Yeah, sorry about that.” Stilinski grimaces. “Believe me, it’s taken some adjustment on my end as well. But I can’t let you go into town. They’re grieving me, and they’re not exactly gonna roll out the welcome mat for hunters looking to set up shop.”

“So, what? You want us to turn around and head back out? Just like that?” Alex shakes his head. “This territory is clearly vulnerable, if something took you down.”

“Ah. About that…” The ghost of Stilinski looks chagrined. Alex could almost swear the thing is blushing. “Would you believe it was a lucky shot? Damn nāgá took me down as I was visiting my dad’s spot, up on the hill. It’s the edge of the territory, and since it hadn’t crossed over, we didn’t know it was there. I took it down, but it got me in the spine.” He shrugs, cool as anything.

“What you got all that magic for if it can’t stop a damn snake?” Leanne is back to yelling at Stilinski, and he looks apologetic.

And wasn’t that a kick in the pants? He’d come to them with a referral from the Argent matriarch, and they’d thought he was looking to join up. They didn’t realise until he was almost through that he didn’t mean to hunt—at least not wolves. Leanne had cussed a purple streak a mile wide, and Alex could admit later he’d felt hurt. Things had got frosty for a second. Later, though, when they’d patched things up, Leanne had ordered Stilinski to really let loose, use all the training he’d got from them and the magic he’d been hiding. Damn, it was a sight.

Turns out he was on a mandatory year of travel from his master: had to go and see other places and learn new skills before he tied himself to his pack. Being an emissary’s an all-or-nothing gig, and you have to be damn sure you want it before it’s passed on. He’d travelled through Nevada, Utah, Colorado, Nebraska, and into South Dakota, where they’d been set up for a time, dealing with a heavy ghost infestation, and he’d sought them out to train him. Spent six months learning all he could, and then took back off with a cheeky grin.

Leanne had grumped, but she kept in touch, swinging around every year or so to check on him. He didn’t really need it—with his hunter’s skill, his magic, and the pack of werewolves at his back, there’d been precious little that could challenge him. The Hale territory had always been lean on interlopers, and after Stilinski took over from Deaton, it was a rare creature could cross through alive. He’d protected the territory for a good decade.

And after all that, to be taken down by a nāgá? Alex shakes his head, and Stilinski huffs.

“Yeah, alright, it’s a bit embarrassing. You don’t have to laugh, Short-Stuff.”

Alex cocks an eyebrow and turns away, addressing the silent hunters. “Put the bags back. We’re gonna crash here, and Lee’ll decide what next in a few hours, when we’ve all rested.” Jamie and Rich have been hanging back, and Jamie looks a bit unsettled, but he tosses Alex a key, and joins the rest to divvy up rooms. The duffels disappear back into the trucks, and the backpacks with clothes and toiletries take their place as the group scatters. Pretty soon it’s just Alex, Leanne, and Stilinski. He goes to slap Stilinski on the back, but hesitates.

The ghost grins and claps him on the back, startling a grunt out of him. “Surprisingly solid when I want to be,” he chuckles, but then he quickly sobers. “Why don’t you go rest? Your mom’ll be there in a moment.”

Alex glances at Leanne, who nods tersely. “See you later, Stilinski.”

He leaves, going into the room closest to the cars, and then it’s a silent standoff between Leanne and the ghost of her prodigy. She stares silently at this kid who’s not a kid—hasn’t been for twelve or so years—and he watches her in return, until she ducks her head and scrubs at her eyes.

“Damn it, kid; how could you let this happen?” she asks, and her voice is shaky, and he sighs.

“I didn’t plan on it. I thought I’d be around a while longer, get to do all that stuff you’re not supposed to do as a hunter or emissary, like having a family.” He slumps a little, and Leanne takes a step, then another, moving until she can drop an arm around his shoulders and lean their heads together.

“You were the real deal, kid. I’ve never been prouder of a trainee.”

Stilinski smiles sadly. “Thanks, Leanne. It means a lot to me.”

They stand companionably for a moment, and then he glances up at the sky. “I’m gonna disappear soon—you won’t be able to see me unless I really need you to—but I need you to promise you won’t go into town.” She hesitates, and he turns imploring eyes on her. “Promise me, Leanne. Please. I can come back and explain more, but I don’t want you and the pack getting into it. I’m still keeping creatures out, because I can still use my magic and I’m still tied to the land, but they’re looking for a fight. They’re angry and hurt, and if you guys get into it with them, both sides are gonna end up losing, and I care too much about all of you to let that happen.”

She blows out a gusty breath, and her shoulders droop. “I promise, kid. But we’re not just gonna get back on the road—I need to stick around and make sure this place can be as stable as you say. I gotta, Stilinski, you know it as well as I do.”

“That’s fair. Just give me some time. You’ll see.” He begins to fade as the sky lightens, and when he’s gone, Leanne shuffles over to her hotel room, finally ready to rest.

All in all, the hunters stay a week before Leanne gets them back on the road. On the third day, Derek Hale comes to visit them, eyes red-rimmed and expression wary, and Leanne grudgingly tells him that she’s just keeping an eye on things, and she’ll go if nothing too bad happens. And she does.

Stilinski comes to say his goodbyes, and they seem pretty final—who knows how long he’ll hang around in this form—and the hunters pretend not to see Leanne crying as she gets in the car, Alex behind the wheel, and leads them towards the freeway into Oregon; they’ve heard tell of a Wendigo just over the border. She glances back just once, to see Stilinski fading behind them as the sun rises at his back.


	2. Dear Ophelia

Stiles has always assumed he’ll die in some epic battle between werewolf factions, when an older, stronger pack comes to try and take Beacon Hills. Or he’ll beat the odds, live into his 90s, and die in his bed, surrounded by little wolfy grandkids. What he hasn’t imagined—couldn’t possibly imagine—was that a fucking nāgá will take him down as he is laying flowers on his parents’ graves at the edge of the Hale land.

He fights the stupid thing, but it goes down hard. Finally, he uses the last of his energy to blow it up, splattering viscera all over himself, his parents’ graves, and the surrounding landscape.

He tugs his pack bonds then, pulling Scott and Derek to him, and they arrive minutes later to find him bleeding out by his father’s headstone. Derek was up when he left the pack house an hour or so before, but Scott is sleep-tousled and shoeless. His face twists up in grief as soon as he spots Stiles, and he drops to his knees, despite Stiles gurgling at him not to ruin his pyjamas with monster innards.

Derek, though… Derek looks like Stiles imagines he must have when the Hale house fire happened: like the bottom has dropped out of his world, and he isn’t sure he can go on. Stiles tries to raise his hand, tries to tell Derek it’s okay, that he _can_ go on without him— _must_ go on, for the pack’s sake—but he can’t feel his hands anymore, and his lips are tingling as he tries to suck in air. He feels so tired, and so very cold, and each blink feels like it takes years. At some point, he stops opening his eyes back up, and drifts into darkness.

Inexplicably, Stiles wakes up a day or so later. Well, it would be more accurate to say he manifests. One moment he is dying, the next he is standing over the spot he’d been lying in, what looks to be the next morning, with no explanation. He’s utterly confused for a moment, then he remembers the snake-monster battle and pats himself down, but there is no sign of any injuries. Frowning, he turns in a slow circle, taking in his surroundings.

His parents’ headstones have been rinsed off, and the flowers he’d brought have been replaced with ones that aren’t spattered in gore. A layer of dirt has been spread on top of the graves, and covered over with fresh pine needles—it’s almost as though nothing happened, except the surrounding trees still have dark stains plastered all over them, and the area beyond the graves is still tossed up from the fight.

At a loss to explain the situation, Stiles begins walking. He heads down the dirt path to the main road, and walks along to the turnoff for the pack house. It seems odd that he doesn’t feel the slightest bit tired, what with being shredded in a fight however long ago, but he doesn’t give it much thought. He jogs up to the pack house half an hour later, and reaches out to turn the door handle—and instead slips through the door up to his elbow.

With a shout, he pulls back, staring in shock at his arm, and then at the door, and then at his arm again. As he’s standing, stupefied, on the porch, the door opens, and Scott appears, half-turned as he says to someone, “Just a sec, I thought I heard something.” He fully turns, and Stiles watches with wide eyes as his best friend peers out at him, not seeming to see him for a moment, and then he gets a funny squinty look on his face, and blinks a few times. Going ashen, he gently shuts the door, and Stiles rushes through it, feeling the tingle of the protections he laid on the house when it was completed. He catches Scott leaning into Allison’s embrace and saying “I thought I saw Stiles.”

“You did, Scott—I’m here!” Stiles says, and both of them glance in his direction, but they don’t see him, and when he looks down at himself, he’s far more see through than he remembers being back at the gravesite. He clenches his fists in frustration, and tries to feel solid, but he’s not sure if it’s working. The lights flicker a little, and he tries harder, and then something weird happens, and he blinks out…and reappears at his parents’ graves. He growls in frustration, and stamps off down the road, heading back to the pack house.

This time, he gets up to the drive outside the house, but Erica’s truck barrels through him. He can tell the engine is stalling from the contact, but he’s already flickering out—and reappearing back at the gravesite.

He grinds his teeth and sits down on his father’s grave. He wants to slam his fists down, but he resists the urge to act like a child, despite his frustration. Instead, he draws a calming centring breath, that he obviously doesn’t need, since he doesn’t have a body anymore, but whatever. He draws a breath, and then he drops into a light trance state, or whatever the ghost equivalent of that is.

Normally, he draws into his own core, feels the pack bonds and his tie to the land and his magical centre. Instead, he finds his ghostly form dissipating, and he drops right into the heart of the Hale pack.

The territory’s heart used to be centred at the Nemeton, but he’d found a ritual to cleanse the damage suffered, and tie the territory to the Hale magical “bloodline” instead. Now, as long as there are born or bitten Hales on the land, the territory is bound to them. (Then, he’d taken great pleasure in ripping up that sucker, and re-planting the chunk of land it’d dominated.)

In this new ghostly form of meditation, he rides a psychic wave that vibrates up and down the pack bonds. They are all mourning him, and he feels the deep sorrow they are sharing. He also feels what none of them appears to have noticed yet: his place in the pack bond is not ripped out or empty, like it should be if he’s died. Rather, it loops back into the bonds, strengthening them and tightening them. It’s a bit of an anomaly, and he spends a moment examining it, before he pulls himself away and looks out over all of Beacon Hills. It took him ages to figure out astral projection when he was completing his training at eighteen, but now that he’s dead, he is essentially a part of the land, and so it takes no more than a thought to bring his consciousness to bear on a specific piece of the territory. He needs to see Derek.

As simple as that, he’s there and not there, in their bedroom. Derek is huddled on his side in their bed, eyes clenched shut. He’s even more stubbly than usual, and he’s wearing rumpled clothes that have honestly seen better days. Stiles moves closer without thinking about it, and reaches out. Abruptly, he finds himself in a dreamscape.

He knows he's in Derek's head, because Derek is there, running towards something, something Stiles realises with a pang must be himself. Derek is running, and he feels the tug on the pack bond, but he can’t seem to reach Stiles, and he howls to let him know that he’s coming, if he could only just push a little farther. Then, suddenly, they’re at the graves, and Stiles is gasping on the ground.

It’s a little stomach-churning, and Stiles can’t look at dream-him dying, so instead he looks around, noticing all the little details that aren’t quite right. The headstones are pristine, for instance, but the ground around them is black with far more blood than a single person holds. There is no sign of the nāgá, and Scott isn’t there either. They’re not at the top of the hill that his parents’ graves actually sit on, which overlooks a valley between two hills and the road leading out of Beacon Hills. With a start, he realises that Derek’s reimagined them into the backyard behind the pack house, the heart of the territory. He turns back to see Derek kneeling over dream-Stiles’ dead body, until the body sits up. It’s pouring blood out of its mouth, and it says to Derek, “Why didn’t you save me?”

“I tried,” Derek sobs out.

“Not enough,” the dead-Stiles says, and it holds out a hand, and wolfsbane starts to bloom from the pooled blood in its palm. “But you can make it up to me. We can be together again.”

Derek looks at the plant, and then at the ghoulish features of zombie-Stiles, and he reaches out to take the flower.

Stiles finds the will to propel himself forward and knock zombie-Stiles away, and it dissolves. “Whoa, none of that, now!”

Derek looks at him, confusion clear on his face. “S-Stiles, what?”

“You have to live, Sourwolf; the pack needs you.” Stiles can feel himself flagging, his energy fizzing out. “Crap. I’ll be back—I’m not done with you yet, Derek Hale.” He sees Derek stand and reach for him as he’s sucked back out of the dissolving dream, and he finds himself deposited once more on the hill where his parents are buried.

“Well, damn.”


	3. I Am Stretched On Your Grave

It takes the better part of a week to figure out how to maintain his form. He figures out that he has greater access to magic and can hold his shape and position better at night time, which makes a certain amount of sense, but is also kind of irritating, because most of the pack is asleep; it’s also useful, in that most of the rest of Beacon Hills is asleep, too.

Of course, he’s hunter-trained, so he knows all the theory, but knowing the generals about how ghosts should operate and being one himself are worlds apart. It takes some theorising and some careful experimentation, and he gets so frustrated once that he completely burns himself out, and can’t manifest at all for a whole day, but he learns not to push it, and then he manages control.

The fourth night after he wakes up, he skulks around the coroner’s office, and flips through the ME’s files when no one’s around. The pack had made the excuse he’d been attacked by a mountain lion, and—lacking solid evidence to the contrary—that’s what the ME went with. Stiles feels a little bad that there’s gonna be a resurgence of shooting mountain lions like there was back in high school, when they were blamed for all the werewolf shenanigans. Still, Scott couldn’t just say “a nāgá did it” and expect anyone to believe him, so mountain lions it was.

He also figures out that the Hale land is the bounds of his existence now. His tie to the land is more literal than ever: he actually cannot cross the territory line anymore. Attempting to do so resets him back to his parents’ graves, a place he is thoroughly sick of being by night three.

He doesn’t need sleep anymore, what with not having a body, so he finds other things to occupy his time. He checks in on each of the pack members. Erica and Boyd are busy taking care of their two kids (mostly Boyd, honestly—Erica works as a lawyer in Jackson’s father’s office, and keeps long hours), and Isaac is the only thing keeping the Sheriff’s office running—the man who took over for his father is just as dedicated and hard-working, but far more absent-minded. Janey is a deputy there, and Annika runs a “New Age” bookshop. Jackson is working for his father, Lydia is working on a paper for publication, and Scott took over for Deaton a year ago, and is running the vet’s office now. Melissa is still working at the hospital, along with Matthew, and Malcolm works at a local diner. Each of them is grieving over Stiles, but their lives are also going on—just because Stiles is gone, that doesn’t mean everything stops for anyone else.

Everyone is living their lives in the aftermath; everyone except Derek. In the week since he died, Derek has spent more than half of every day lying in bed. He only eats when someone makes him—Stiles finds himself even more glad that at least half of the pack lives in the house—and he barely changes clothes every other day. He hasn’t shaved at all and, in Stiles’ opinion, the unwashed mountain man look is not an attractive one on him.

As soon as he figures out how to access the magic, Stiles figures out how to interrupt Derek’s dreams before they take a predictably nasty turn, and has spent a portion of each night trying to twist the dreams in a more neutral direction. Sometimes it even works.

The day of his funeral arrives, and Stiles watches the entire thing from a distance. Derek turns out in a suit, and has shaved at some point in the last 24 hours—he doesn’t look too unkempt, so Lydia clearly got at him. Scott and Melissa huddle together to one side of him, and Lydia, Isaac, and Erica stand tall on the other, holding each other’s hands. Boyd stands at a slight distance, keeping easy track of the kids, who are just a little too young to quite understand the gravity of the event. Matthew, Janey, Malcolm, Annika, and Jackson are on the other side, standing to the right of the minister. Deaton is there, too, though he stands removed from the rest of them, and is obviously distracted.

They’ve chosen to inter his mortal remains on the same hill as his parents. And thus ends the Stilinski line, Stiles thinks with a bitter smile. It’s a bright, warm Sunday morning, right around the time he’d be arriving to lay flowers on his parents’ graves, and a week since he died. He hears the murmuring voice of the minister, watches Derek struggle not to break down, sees the others leaning on each other for support. It’s a touching scene, but he’s only here because everyone he’d otherwise be keeping an eye on is gathered here. Being present at your own funeral—even if no one can see you—is actually supremely awkward, and he’s contemplating ducking out early, so to speak; he doesn’t expect anything interesting to happen.

Which is why he’s caught flatfooted when the minister drones to a stop and Deaton looks up and directly at him as the coffin is lowered into the grave. Stiles feels his eyes widen, and he glances down at himself; he should be invisible, since it’s still midmorning. Then Derek drops the first handful of dirt in, and he feels a spike of energy shoot through him. He’s pinned by Deaton’s gaze, and another spike buzzes over him as Scott drops dirt in. He’s filling with energy now, some kind of charge being built up, and every pack member dropping dirt on top of his coffin makes him vibrate like a plucked guitar string, and when Deaton drops the last handful in, never letting go of the eye-contact, it’s like a circuit closing.

Stiles is flooded with energy, a rush like the one he felt when he returned from his year away and finally committed to the position of Hale emissary. He feels himself being sucked into the pack bond, into the land connection, and he can feel so much. He can access so much magic, and he can see multiple places at once, and he can feel the pack bond resonating. He’s scattered, but more focused than he’s been in a while, and he senses Deaton’s knowing presence floating at the edge of the pack, removed as usual, and hiding something. Stiles wants to flip him off, but there are more important things to do, like delve into the strangeness of the pack bond post his demise, and figure it out. He can change things so easily from inside, and he can feel the edges of the territory, and he will know when they’re being encroached on now.

He extricates himself gently from the bulk of the sensation, because it’s too intense to sustain, and floats on the periphery as his funeral comes to an end. Someone will fill in the rest later, but for now, the pack is done, and they disperse. Stiles stays for a moment to contemplate the freshness of his own grave next to his mother and father’s, and then follows the party back to the pack house, where they’ve all decided to reconvene. Though Melissa maintains a home elsewhere, as do Janey and Malcolm, and Jackson, most of the rest live there. Deaton is grudgingly invited along as the former emissary and mentor to the one lost, and they gather solemnly in the living room. Stiles doesn’t really know what to do, and once again, he begins thinking of leaving, when Deaton clears his throat and says, out of nowhere, “I think you’ll find yourself at least temporarily less limited. So, now might be a good time to reveal yourself.”

Stiles rolls his eyes, and tries to manifest. Surprisingly, it actually is considerably easier than usual, and in short order he finds himself the focus of a great number of wide eyes. Erica looks puzzled, Boyd is flashing gold eyes, Melissa sits down abruptly, and Derek goes terribly pale.

“Uh, hi,” Stiles says into the silence. “This isn’t exactly how I imagined doing this. Woulda been nice if someone who knew something had clued me in.” He narrows his gaze on Deaton, who looks as unruffled as ever. “Um, so, this is awkward. Maybe I’ll just Casper the Friendly Ghost back out of here…” He starts fading a little, and Derek shoots to his feet.

“No!”

Stiles solidifies hurriedly, because Derek is making the most broken face at him, and it hurts a little just seeing it.

He takes a couple of steps, reaches out, lets his hand drop. He looks nervously at Deaton, who nods encouragingly, so Stiles takes a deep breath and raises his hand again, tentatively reaching out, trembling a little, until his hand presses against Derek’s arm. He clutches tightly for a moment, eyes wide, and then he wraps Derek up in a hug, pressing as close as he can and remain solid. With a gasp, Derek throws his arms around Stiles in return and they hold each other tightly for a long moment.

Finally, they let go, though Stiles remains close as the rest of the pack surrounds him. Janey and Malcolm touch his face and arms reverently. Erica punches him lightly in the shoulder, and Lydia examines him clinically; Stiles can tell she is cataloguing the whole experience in her head. Scott wraps him up in a tight hug, and Stiles is a bit grateful he doesn’t need to breathe anymore, because he’s actually pretty sure he’d have been injured if he’d still been a living human. Isaac brushes against his side when Scott backs off, and Annika presses her forehead to his for a moment. Jackson punches him a lot harder than Erica did, and Boyd just offers him a casual fist-bump. Matthew slides into a short side-hug, and when he disengages, Melissa is there to pull him into another rib-creaking hug, pulling back with a watery smile.

“How is this possible?” Lydia asks, and it’s a fair question, but Stiles doesn’t have the answer. Instead, he turns to look at Deaton, one eyebrow raised.

The older emissary looks around at them all, as each pack member turns to watch him. He purses his lips for a moment, and then says, “There’s a reason emissaries aren’t meant to integrate deeply into the pack. The relationship has traditionally been a formal one, with the emissary providing guidance and information, but existing outside of the pack structure.” Stiles narrows his eyes. He thinks he may know where this is going. Deaton puts his hands in his pockets and continues, locking eyes with Stiles.

“The emissary is tied to the land through the pack. Things that can sever this bond include total destruction of the pack, formal replacement by another druid, or the emissary’s death. When a person dies and returns as a ghost, it is because that person feels they have some unfinished business, or something tying them to this plane of existence. Such ties are often related to deep emotions, such as anger…or love.”

Derek’s hand clamps down on Stiles’ hard for a moment, but Stiles doesn’t turn to face him. Instead, he nods slowly to Deaton, and then meets Lydia’s eyes. Her gaze darts down to where his hand is still clasped in Derek’s, and then back to his face.

“How long does it last?” she asks, not taking her eyes off of Stiles’ face.

“It depends,” Deaton answers. “Usually, the deceased person concludes whatever unfinished business holds them here, and then they naturally pass over on their own.”

Stiles knows he looks mule-ish as she asks, “And if they don’t?”

“There are ways to force it,” Deaton says slowly. “Hunters know a lot of tricks to make it happen. Some spirits can be talked into passing, but the traditional route involves a ritual cleansing: salting and burning the earthly remains.”

There’s a buzzing in Stiles’ ears that he realises suddenly is the subvocal growl of a number of disgruntled werewolves. If he still had bones, he bets they’d be rattling right now.

“Well, people already know he’s died,” Lydia says, matter of factly, turning to Derek. “How do we make sure that no hunters catch wind of this and come to take him out?”

Deaton looks thoughtful. “Preserving something dear to the deceased, or a piece of their body—hair, bone, etc.—can prevent the cleansing ritual from being effective.”

“Okay, creepy,” Stiles interjects. “How about we have this discussion later? Like, maybe when Stiles isn’t in the room to hear you talk about cutting him up?” Derek squeezes his hand again, and Stiles gives him a bright smile. “It’s alright, big guy. I’m not going anywhere. As far as I’m concerned, Beacon Hills still needs protecting, and I can do that just as well like this; better, actually, since I can tap directly into the land to see what’s happening on the borders, now.” Deaton’s eyebrows rise, but he offers no comment.

“You’re staying?” Derek asks, voice small and private, just for Stiles.

“I’m staying,” he responds, squeezing Derek’s hand back.


	4. Breathe

Things settle into a strange sort of normal, after the funeral. Stiles doesn’t need to sleep, but Derek rests better if he knows Stiles will be there when he wakes, so he spends his most solid hours moving around the pack house. He stays in their bedroom until Derek’s asleep, and then he wanders about in the house, cleaning and baking and reading, and returns to the bed when his pack bond tells him Derek’s waking. He occasionally cooks breakfast in the early mornings, or does the laundry, and he’s found ways to amuse himself while everyone else sleeps, but a small portion of his consciousness is always tasked with keeping the borders protected.

While the sun is up, he sinks fully into the land, patrolling the borders, in a sense, and generally keeping an eye on things. If a few would-be interlopers are swallowed up by the land or washed out in a flash flood, well, who’s going to tell?

Allison’s generally too busy running the Argent clan to make the trip from Southern California very often, so it takes about a month for her to discover what’s happened. She screams at Scott for a solid twenty minutes for not telling her, and then she comes back into the house and gives Stiles an awkward hug.

“Sign of a good hunter,” she jokes, “not even death’ll slow us down.”

“Well, I’ve got nothing on the Winchesters,” he quips back, and she snorts gracelessly (but it’s still really adorable, because it’s Allison), and the ice is broken and the two of them fall back into their old banter like nothing’s happened.

A little more than two weeks later, his mentor crosses onto the territory, and he has to dissuade her from a full-on assault of the Hale pack house. She backs down, grudgingly, and gives Derek her word that she’ll only stick around long enough to confirm the pack’s ability to defend their territory. Less than a week, and she rolls back out.

Things are remarkably similar to the way they were pre-Stiles’ death (aside from the part where he has cool new powers, but can’t go out in daylight—or, really, into any part of town—but, hey, everything comes with trade-offs). Stiles keeps away the things that go bump in the night, and the pack goes on with the business of living their lives.

Except, again, Derek. Stiles can manifest enough for a little frottage now and then, but he worries about how satisfying that is for Derek. And then there’s the matter of pups.

The Hale pack made a comeback when Stiles was in his junior year of high school, and they’ve been stable for the past decade, which means they have some bargaining room in looking for a woman who wants to bear an alpha’s children. Stiles has always wanted kids eventually, and Derek would be the very best daddy, and they were looking at some promising prospects when Stiles had his…unfortunate accident. But now Derek is so clingy, Stiles knows he’ll probably never agree to it.

Having pups will cement them as a strong, healthy, growing pack, and having Alpha pups, well… It gives them added credibility with other older, well-established packs, it shows they aren’t living in the past with the Hale fire, and it gives them a greater hold on the land, since Stiles tied the territory to the bloodline. It’s an all-win situation—if he can just get Derek to see it.

“I just want you to consider it!”

“I’m not cheating on you, just so we can have children!”

“Derek, it’s not cheating if I give you permission! Besides, I know it’s gotta be hard, with me being so…incorporeal. So, you know, _dis_ embodied.”

“Stiles, I love what we have.”

“I do, too. But I want children—and so do you! We already talked about this.”

“That was…before.”

“I know! I know, but having pups…it would really benefit the pack, Derek. I just want you to consider it.”

“…Fine.”

It’s like pulling teeth, but he finally wheedles Derek into it—on two conditions. 1: It has to be artificial insemination. Stiles grudgingly agrees. And 2: The mother has to join the pack, and see Derek and Stiles’ relationship. On this one, Stiles balks.

“It’s insulting!”

“You’re my partner, and you’re the one who’ll help me raise the pups!”

“Derek, everyone in the pack will help raise the pups; this is just insulting.”

“You’re my partner!”

“I’m dead, Derek!” He almost wants to take it back as soon as he’s said it. Derek looks like Stiles socked him in the gut, just wounded him. But it’s true. They can’t play house forever—the reality is that Stiles is dead, and Derek is running away from it because he can.

Stiles slumps onto the bed, refusing to look up at Derek. “Whoever we bring here, if we bring her in, is going to know that, and she’s not gonna have the history with me that the rest of the pack does, and all she’ll see is you throwing her over for a ghost. It’s insulting, Derek. Because I’m _dead_.”

Derek collapses onto the other side of the bed. “I don’t want it to be true.”

“But it is.”

“I know.” They sit in silence for several minutes, until Derek says (somewhat petulantly, Stiles thinks) “But, artificial insemination.”

“I agreed, hon.”

The fights all become worth it when Stiles gets to see Derek holding his little girl, Elizabeth Talia Hale, in his arms for the first time. He was born to raise a baby girl, as far as Stiles is concerned—he’s a natural.

And it seems to open the floodgates, because Annika has twins the next year, and Malcolm and Janey pair off and start having kids of their own, and Isaac finds someone and then _they_ have kids, and Scott—who Stiles swears is some kind of saint—gets word of a group of pups orphaned by hunters in Utah, and he adopts all of them, and suddenly the pack house is way too small, and Boyd has a friend in construction who gives them a good deal to build a second, larger pack house nearby on the property, and Stiles and Derek have another daughter and then twin boys by the same woman, and Stiles is so so grateful he argued Derek into it.

By now, word’s gotten around that some mystical force protects the Hales, and they have the most secure territory west of the Dakotas, but Stiles keeps patrolling. The pack grows, and they make alliances and sign treaties with other supernatural creatures, and everything is perfect.

Well, _almost_ everything.


	5. Until The Day You Die

Stiles is patrolling the edges of the Hale territory, as usual, when he feels a sort of vibration run though him. If he had teeth, he thinks, they’d be on edge right now. He tries to feel for what caused it and stiffens, eyes narrowing. He hasn’t felt this disconnected from the land in years. It’s like he can barely grasp at this power that he’s had at his fingertips (metaphorically speaking) for decades. He slowly sinks into the land, so laboriously he’s reminded of learning to astral project as a seventeen year old with ADHD.

Once he’s in, it’s not like moving through molasses, but it’s also not nearly instantaneous. He pushes down growing unease and reaches out through the pack bonds, finding that all of the pack members are gathering at the old pack house, the one that they built for Derek and the original betas. It’s nine o’clock, on a Thursday night, so a gathering like this, unplanned, means trouble of some kind.

He slips through the bonds, using them as a shortcut to the nearest pack member, and emerges on the porch of the house, where Annika’s second son Frederick is talking in a hushed voice to Derek’s eldest daughter, Elizabeth. He manifests, and they turn to him, expressions unreadable.

“Freddie, Eli—what’s going on?” he asks, worry churning in his gut.

The two exchange a glance, then Eli says, “It’s Daddy.”

Stiles feels a rush of excitement begin to war with his concern. It’s time, he thinks, and the sluggish response of the land to his touch begins to make perfect sense. He’s losing his hold, because his purpose is ending. Derek is his anchor to this plane of existence. He feels a sharp stab of sorrow, because he never wants Derek to die, but it’s quickly gone: he knows it’s time.

He nods to them, and they nod back as he turns and slips straight through the wall into the house, and then rides the pack bonds up into his and Derek’s bedroom. Derek is propped up on a mountain of pillows. Scott, Isaac, and Lydia are there, and all of them look up when Stiles manifests just inside the doorway. Scott and Isaac rise as he comes in, and slip out.

“It’s almost time,” Lydia says, her face otherworldly. Her voice has taken on a lilting tone, and her eyes are distant. Stiles turns from her and approaches the bed.

Derek has been fighting an infection for the past week. Stiles can tell that his healing factor gave out earlier, while Stiles was off patrolling. He’s dying.

He leans over, and Derek opens his eyes, smiling as soon as he sees Stiles’ face. His breathing is harsh, but he doesn’t seem to mind. “Stiles…”

“I’m here. It’s time, big guy, I know.” Stiles feels a little like crying and a little like laughing; he does neither, but instead smiles gently, brushing a faint kiss on Derek’s forehead. “You were amazing, you know? I know it’s not what you wanted, but just look at the pack you built up. Elizabeth and Freddie are both ready, and you can finally let go. We can be together again.”

Derek starts coughing and can’t seem to stop, and he begins to struggle for air. Stiles wishes he could do something to ease this, but he can barely touch anything anymore, and there’s nothing that can be done for Derek now anyway. It merely falls to them to wait, and nature will take its course.

An hour later, Derek’s body gives up; he lets out one last wet breath, and his chest never rises again. Lydia’s hair is floating around her, and her eyes are shining as she opens her mouth and keens a musical cry of mourning.

Stiles stands, and he knows he’s nearly out of time as well. He lets his form melt away and slips down into the main room, where he shimmers indistinctly in front of Freddie. “I’m fading fast,” he says, and Freddie nods. “You’re ready, so you just need to perform the ritual to tie you to the bloodline formally, and you’ll be the new Hale emissary.” Eli steps over and takes her fiancé’s hand, and Stiles beams at them both. “I’m so proud of all of you, and I know he is, too. Goodbye, Eli. Take care.”

“Goodbye, Papa Stiles,” she says, and if her eyes are a little damp, no one’s going to call her on it.

He gives them a firm, approving nod, and turns to the bright light that’s started to shine to his right. He feels himself being drawn in, feeling warmer than he has since before he died. A figure steps into the light and holds one hand out for him to take. When he does, he’s pulled into a deep kiss, and he smiles against his love’s lips. After a long moment, they separate, and he can see Derek’s eyes sparkling. “I’ve been waiting to do that for 58 years!”

“Psshh, what do you call last week then? I kissed you before you got that lung infection! I didn’t hear any complaints then!”

Derek laughs and presses another kiss to his mouth. “Hush, babe, you’re ruining the moment.”

Stiles just grins and stands up straighter. “Ready?” he asks.

“I thought you’d never ask,” Derek says, and the two of them face into the light and walk forward, together.


End file.
